


la maladie

by phantom_lycoris



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Darkness, F/M, Gothic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 20:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21398023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantom_lycoris/pseuds/phantom_lycoris
Summary: Christine falls ill with a sudden disease that develops in the course of one day, and not even the top physicians called in can identify it. Meanwhile, there is a schism that has formed between Raoul and his brother Philippe, and things only get worse with the abrupt- but not so surprising - reappearance of an old enemy.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Kudos: 7





	la maladie

**Author's Note:**

> i hate this

He knew that there was something wrong the instant he saw Nadir's face.  
Normally he might have sent the Persian away with a few carefully chosen words of warning, maybe even a not-so-veiled threat. But something about the incredibly grave countenance caused Erik to hesitate a moment too long, and Nadir slipped past him into the Louis-Philippe room without an invitation.   
Erik regained his focus, and turned the golden fire of his eyes on Nadir. "What is it _ now ? _ " Came the question in a harsh, curt tone. It seemed that recently, Nadir had been dropping by frequently. A lot too frequently, in Erik's opinion, although he never acted on any of the threats that he issued in vain attempts to regain his isolation.   
Nadir's emerald gaze paused at a spot right over the masked man's right shoulder, as he pursed his lips, removing the astrakhan cap from on top of his ebony locks and setting it carefully to the side. "Christine is ill."  
Erik stared for a few moments, and his emotions were clearly visible despite the mask of porcelain that obscured many of his features, before he took a step forward, invading the Persian's personal space with a defiant curl to the corner of his deformed lips. "What do you mean, exactly ? _ Ill ? _ "  
Nadir sighed, steepling his fingers in front of him with utmost solemnity and not seeming bothered at all by the closeness of the opera ghost. Indeed, he had become far too used to the stench of decay that Erik carried washing over him at such close quarters "I mean what I say. It happened suddenly; there was no warning." As an afterthought, he added what should have been obvious. "They cancelled tonight's performance, of course."  
Christine, ill? The thought was abhorrent. Impossible. No, it wasn't true. Of course it wasn't true. Ah, yes. It was a cruel joke that the Persian had decided to play on him. A trick that he should have seen from the beginning. Because the alternative... no. No. He would have heard about it before now if it were true. It wasn't true, it wasn't. Whatever Nadir's motives, he would not be fooled by a joke, especially one in such bad taste.  
Erik loosed a harsh peal of laughter, moving back several paces from Nadir and flexing his pale, limber fingers. "You mock me, to think I would fall for that." His eyes wandered over the well-built figure, like the eyes of a predator on prey, but Nadir was undeterred.  
"I'm not mocking you, Erik. It's true, and if you don't believe it, you will find out soon enough anyway."  
How long was the idiot going to keep up the facade ? The ghastly figure of the phantom twisted slightly to the side as Erik barked out another chuckle, one that had no humor at all in it. "My dear Persian, you play a dangerous game. And my patience is running thin." Soon he would have to bring out the lasso, the dreaded weapon of death that went with the corresponding devil. Then perhaps the Persian would finally get the message, which was already incredibly clear. Waiting impatiently for a response, Erik sat in an armchair, crossing his right leg over his left. One of his mother's favourites. He remembered how beautiful she had been, all those years ago, sitting in this very chair as she conversed with friends over tea and cookies and whatnot, while he, her offensive offspring, her disappointment, lay subdued and pitiful in the corner of his boarded-up room like an abused animal, a creature to be tossed aside and forgotten. She was right to hate him, of course. This much he was certain of. He didn't blame her for any of it, as much as he felt he would have liked to. No; it was all his own fault. The fault of an angel risen from hell, a demon among the living. He should never have been brought into the world.  
He was reeled back into the present by Nadir's voice. "I assure you, Erik. She is seriously ill, and even now she surely lies in bed at the home of the Chagnys, tended in vain by the best healers and doctors that the Vicomte de Chagny can afford."  
Of course. Of course the boy was with her, the boy that Erik so, so desperately wanted to hate, but could never truly bring himself to despise. The boy that he tried, every night, to lay the blame on, yet every night was forced to realize that it was only he himself that was at fault, that had ever been at fault. And most likely his idiotic, pampered brother was there too. The Comte de Chagny. Philippe was his name, Erik was almost certain. He had come close to killing the ridiculous man once before, and he wasn't even sure what had stopped him. Not compassion, clearly. Perhaps he had foreseen that doing so would create only more hatred in the Vicomte's heart for Erik than already existed. Although he shouldn't have cared about that, either.   
Erik ground his teeth against the sharp reply burning at the back of his throat, managing only a muted nod as he sat back, gripping the arms of his chair in a death-like grip. So it was the truth after all. It had to be; he saw no obvious reason for Nadir to continue insisting that his claim was true if it wasn't. Besides, the Persian had never been the type to take enjoyment in lies and deception.  
"You finally believe me," Nadir observed, seeing the change in the other male's bearing and attitude.  
Erik stood abruptly, reaching to a side-table for his fedora that he hastily placed upon his head, before wrapping the dark travelling cloak around himself with hastiness that still managed to be graceful. An expression of alarm finally, finally crossed Nadir's dark face. "Where are you going now?" Erik paused to send him a hooded look, and could tell by the widening of the brilliant eyes that his companion already knew, so he skipped the answer to that question.  
"You can try to stop me, but I warn you that the result may be very deleterious. For both of us."  
"I... No, I can't stop you. I can see that." Nadir rubbed a hand wearily across his face, and Erik leaned back in satisfaction. So he was learning at last. "Very well, but do try not to cause more trouble than there already is. As much as I can barely tolerate you sometimes, I would hate to find you dead on the lawn of the Chagnys."  
Erik scoffed incredulously. "Me dead? I do believe you've got it backwards." Without pausing to see the reaction his words had caused, Erik strode for one of the exits that led directly from the lair to the halls of the Opera, ignoring the grating sound of Nadir's voice, no doubt calling some sort of guidance or other after him. Let the man find his own way out, too, as he had so many times before when turned forcefully away by the masked man who he seemed to consider a strange sort of "friend". Erik had more pressing matters to tend to at the moment.____

_ _ _ _ The de Chagny household was known for being one of the oldest and most respectable families in France, yet these days it was more the source of gossip than anything else, and most of it about the real relationship between Comte Philippe de Chagny and his younger brother, the Vicomte. For so long the two had seemed to get along quite fine; and yet now, it was said that they fought and argued every day, their voices carrying through the halls and down the staircases of the manor. The subject of their fight was Christine Daae. Always Christine Daae, the lead soprano of the Paris Opera. That was all the servants could tell anyone who cornered them and assailed them with nosy queries. What was rumored among but not confirmed to the general public was that Raoul indeed intended to propose to the girl, and that Philippe would not hear of it. It was absurd, really, for a nobleman of Raoul's status to even think of marrying a lowborn girl like Christine, no matter how pretty she was, how pleasant to both the eyes and ears. Philippe told his brother so, but he was always met with the same inevitable response of, "I love her." Three words, even spoken from the most earnest depths of the young man's heart, were never enough to sway Philippe to his side, instead serving as the catalyst for other, harsher words exchanged soon after.  
All of this Erik knew; most of it, in any case. He knew of the planned proposal of course; there is no need for me to explain that. And he knew of the arguments, not only from the circulating rumors among the ballet girls of the Opera but also because he had been there during several of the feuds, in the shadows where no one could detect him but he himself. For some time he had made a habit of spying, sneaking, and watching the de Chagnys, particular the younger of the two brothers, in an attempt, any attempt, to know what Christine saw in him, why she loved him so, and if Erik himself could possibly achieve any of these traits himself and thus win her love at last. During his few "visits", though, he had seen absolutely nothing attractive or nothing of even remote interest to him, so after three or four times he had stopped. It was risky, too; of course, he doubted they would ever catch him even if they had ever somehow managed to spot him, but it wasn't worth the chance.   
Approaching the mansion now, stalking along the walls from the outside in search of an opening, he could hear the quarreling tones of Philippe and Raoul drift out through several of the open windows. Loud as they were, Erik realised that Christine, too, must have been able to hear the bickering even more clearly than he, and a flash of rage cut through him like a knife. Did they have no consideration at all for the poor girl ? It would distress her to hear such negative voices so frequently. If Raoul de Chagny truly loved her so, then why did he not take more care to keep her as calm as possible ?  
His eyes caught on a huge tree, slightly bent over from age and overgrowth towards one of the windows. It had plenty of branches that looked strong enough to hold his weight. Erik doubted that the window led directly into the room that Christine was kept, although it would have saved him quite some toil. Ah, well. It seemed that this was the only way to actually get in, so this way he would go. The bark was rough, but not yet sloughing off. The climb would not be the most dangerous or difficult part, as his progress up the trunk gradually quickened. He had climbed enough things in his life to know. The main problem would be getting from the branch to the window, without making noise.   
Having reached said branch, he was reassured to find that the window was, indeed, open as it had seemed from below. With some movements that would have been ungraceful for anyone else and already borderlined inelegant even for him, he dropped into the room, eyeing his surroundings. On one side of the room was a sophisticated wooden bookshelf that contained only about five or six actual volumes. On the other side was a plush bed with a canopy, silk curtains pushed to the front and back on either side, and on the bed....  
She looked terrible, even worse than he had originally expected, although of course she still looked beautiful, much more so than he ever had. Her lips, once plump and pink and smiling, were now cracked and dry, laying in a completely flat and straight line across her ashen skin. With each intake of breath, her chest rattled, her face contracted in pain. Around her face, blond hair fell listless and thin. Yet to him she seemed a divine angel. He was overcome with the urge to run to her, to hold her and bury his face in her skirts and _ sob _, but he could do none of these with her in such a condition. He could only stare, and as he did he saw how close to death she really looked. He could not bear the thought of a world with no Christine in it at all. For her to live separated from him was one thing. For her to cease existing altogether to everyone was quite another.   
She was not sleeping, although she ought to have been. Her pale blue eyes peered hazily into the space before her face, seeing everything and nothing. She had not noticed him yet.  
Erik could no longer restrain himself. All impulse control gone, he stole to her side like a shadow in the night and stood, awkwardly, like a newborn colt unsure of what to do with itself and its legs. Her head turned to the side with some effort, and she saw him. He knew this not by any major physical change in her, but by the way the skin between her eyes furrowed minutely, by the spark of swift recognition in her glassy gaze.   
"Erik." He almost didn't recognize his angel's voice. It was scratchy. Rough. Like the voice of a poor peasant woman who had been working hard, too hard. They just looked at each other for a moment, angel and devil, summer and winter. Erik reached for her, and then pulled back as if afraid that he would burn her with his touch, instead shoving his hands into the pockets of his dress-suit trousers. Below them, the voices of Raoul and Philippe quieted slightly, but still continued on. They would not be up to check on Christine in quite a while, Erik assumed. While this made things better, safer for him.... it was also infuriating. They should have someone by Christine's side at every moment, even just a servant or a maid. What if she needed something, and there was no one to give it to her, no one to help her ? What if she... No, she wasn't going to die. Erik would not allow it.   
Christine was still looking at him. Waiting for him to say something ? To do something, anything ? What did she expect ? He could do nothing but make things worse for her, yet selfishly, he was still here. For his own benefit only. He needed to leave, now, but he couldn't. He couldn't.  
"You're shivering," he noted, and it was true. Despite the blankets flung over her, her fragile body shook with tremors, not just from cold but from fever too. Swinging his cape off his narrow shoulders, he draped it over her, never once touching her or any other element of the bed, and then pulled back quickly. Reaching out with tentative hands, Christine grabbed hold of the dark fabric of his sleeve, and he froze, staring at her with a wary gleam in his yellow eyes. ___ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _ _ "Why are you here ?" Was her next question, and Erik stared incredulously for a moment, tempted to laugh. Wasn't it obvious ? Of course he would be here as soon as he heard. Although... ah, maybe she didn't want him here. Maybe her question was in fact a veiled way of saying 'Leave me alone. I don't want to see you ever again.'  
"My angel," he uttered finally, after another moment of silence. "Where else would I be but here ?" He hesitated, and added in a softer tone, "Of course, if you want me to leave... I will." And he would, as much as he hated it.  
"Don't leave. Not yet." She tried to sit up in alarm, something too close to fear causing her gaze to widen, and immediately Erik took in a sharp breath, reaching instinctively towards her with his gloved hand to ease her back down into her former lying position without even thinking too much about it. She turned to the side, painful coughs racking her body and echoing throughout the room. Erik hated this, all of it. He hated to see her suffer when it should have been him in her place. She had done nothing to deserve this, nothing for pestilence to claim her so brutally. He was the one who wished for death, and if he could he would take her place, too willingly. The squabbling voices stopped abruptly, and there was the sound of footsteps approaching. Surely the brothers had heard the tortured sounds of her spasm and were coming even now. Christine lowered her hand from where it had been covering her mouth, and Erik got a glimpse of crimson bloodstains before she took his hand in both of hers, staring frantically at him. She "You must go, _ now. _," she practically pleaded, as the de Chagnys surely grew even nearer. "If they find you... "  
"I can handle them," Erik promised fervently, but Christine was already releasing him, shooing him towards the window from where he had come. It was too late, he could already tell. Perhaps Erik could not move as fast as he once had, perhaps it was the fault of his age alone, but either way, the door swung open and Raoul burst in just as Erik's fingers closed on the windowsill.  
"Christine ! Christine, I heard you coughing. Are you alright-" Raoul's voice trailed off as he saw Erik. Uttering a sharp cry that was as much fury as alarm, the younger de Chagny brother took an automatic step back, colliding with his elder sibling, who had been coming up behind. Seeing that it was already far too late to escape at this point, Erik turned, a wry smile playing on his lips. He distinctly remembered Nadir telling him not to cause trouble. _ Too late for that now, eh ? _  
"You," Raoul finally managed, as soon as he had recovered his bearings. Fumbling with himself, he reached for his belt, evidently trying to recover a pistol to stretch Erik dead on the floor, but unfortunately for the young man, his adversary was faster. Before either he or Philippe could do anything, Erik was there, having knocked the weapon out of Raoul's hand and locked both arms around his neck, strangling him almost as easily as if he had been using the punjab lasso. Christine gave a cry of muffled dismay that went unheard in the subsequent chaos. Raoul's story would likely have ended right there if it had not been for Philippe, who, retrieving the pistol from the floor hastily, fired a rapid succession of shots, meant more to intimidate than kill. Each missed save for the last, which with a stroke of luck embedded itself in Erik's shoulder. More out of surprise than pain, Erik released Raoul, who staggered to the side, clutching at his throat. There was a moment of stunned silence on both sides; and then Erik started to chuckle, a deranged sound like a cackling hyena. He could see the blood seeping from the wound through his black suit, feel the cold metal of the bullet in his flesh.  
"You know, Comte, I must congratulate you," he commented casually. "I would not have guessed that you even knew how to fire, let alone hit something."  
Cold, blue-grey eyes met his own as the Comte de Chagny made no reply for a few seconds. "What business do you have here ?"  
"Am I not allowed to visit my poor _ ange _ in the time of her ailment ?" countered Erik, so far showing no sign that he could feel the pain of his fresh wound.   
Raoul had finally caught his breath and now interjected, cutting off Philippe's response.  
"You aren't welcome here. You should know that."  
Turning on his heel, Raoul commenced to Christine's side, murmuring to her in a low tone so that no one else was able to hear their brief conversation. Philippe watched them for some time before turning his glare back to Erik.  
"You've caused us enough trouble. Are we not allowed to live in peace without you hovering over us ?"  
"My dear Comte ! It's not you nor your brother that I'm interested in at all. I would have thought that was obvious. Christine is the only one I care for."  
The air grew tenser in the room, as Philippe took a step closer, apparently attempting to intimidate Erik. An admirable effort, but Erik was not one to be intimidated. He stood strong against the bold advance, and the Comte stopped only about a foot away.   
"Either way, I suggest that you leave. Now. Perhaps then I- _ we _ \- will spare you, if nothing else than for Christine's sake. Raoul says she speaks of you, sometimes, and while the words are sometimes bitter they are just as often fond."  
Fond ? What fond things did Christine have to say about him, he wondered ? The last time they had parted ways had been a desperate encounter, one that ended with her hatred of him, or so he had thought. Why would she speak of him at all ? That worried him. She would have been much better off entirely forgetting he existed. She should have moved on and left him behind in the ashes of her past, like so many others had done before her.   
Philippe was still talking, blabbering on in the insufferable way that so many noblemen chattered, oblivious to the fact that Erik had entirely tuned him out. His eyes had already moved back to Christine, conversing in weak tones with Raoul, and suddenly she pushed the young man away from her and doubled completely over. If the last fit of coughing had been bad, this one was horrific. Her entire body shook back and forth, moving the bed with her as she spluttered and hacked, an infinite staccato rhythm. Raoul jumped back, his face painted in an expression of fear.  
"Philippe- Philippe ! Call the doctors," he begged.  
Philippe paused, giving Erik a suspicious survey.   
"If you care for Christine as much as you say, I think I can trust that you won't try anything. Not yet. But if you do, you'll be sure to regret it." He allowed Erik to slip from his observation at last, sweeping out of the room with a cursory pace.  
The white sheets and Erik's cloak that he had covered her with were splattered with cerise droplets by the time her coughing fit had ceased, and at last Christine sagged back against the headboards of the bed, her hair falling into a curtain before her face. Erik moved to brush it out of her view, but Raoul was faster, gently clearing her face of the strands with a dirty look at Erik, the meaning clear : She is mine, and mine alone. Don't even think about touching her.  
Erik humored him, for the moment anyway, and instead crouched at Christine's other side. To his panic, he saw that Christine was struggling to breath, each exhale coming in a gasp, each inhale labored. Raoul saw this too, and cupped her face in his hands, searching her eyes with tears pooling in his.   
"No- no, Christine, Christine, please..." He cried softly, letting his face fall upon her rattling chest. "Christine," he whispered into the thin fabric of her dress. Erik did nothing but sit, cold and hard as a wall of stone. It was over, for her. He could see that. No amount of doctors or physicians could save her now. Maybe if they had come ten minutes before, they could have, but not now. He could hear the shouts of the healers as Philippe called for them, he could hear their quick strides, but they would be too late. Already she had achieved a general look of death. One trembling hand she laid upon Raoul's shoulder, and the other lay limp across the bed. Erik took it in his own, and stared at it. Against the palm of his leather glove, it was so delicate. So pale. So weak.   
She made no sound, but instead looked from Raoul to Erik several times, some hidden meaning in the dying glow of her eyes, as the nobleman cried pathetically into her bosom and the monster continued to stare at her, the only hint of his anguish in those burning eyes. By the time the medics made it to the room, she lay dead between the two men who had loved her so much more than they had ever loved themselves._________ _ _ _ _ _


End file.
